Release Me

of twelve-point-six million dollars.”
    “Oh, God.” I don’t mean to speak, but the words fly out. I press my hand over my mouth and blink back tears.
    Ollie is watching me, but I’m not really seeing him. Instead I’m seeing Damien on his terrace pacing with a phone to his ear, talking to Charles Maynard about something I don’t understand. And about twelve-point-six million dollars.
    “Oh, God,” I repeat.
    There’s no compassion in Ollie’s eyes as he looks at me. “Maybe Stark just got tired of the bullshit. But I don’t think so. I think he’s covering up what he did. He’s dangerous, Nik, just like I’ve been saying. He’s dangerous, and you damn well know it, too.”
    My thoughts bounce randomly through my head as I steer my battered Honda to Damien’s Malibu house. Anger, loss, fear, denial, hope. I don’t know what I’m thinking or even what
to
think. All I know is that this isn’t good.
    All I’m sure of is that it hurts like hell.
    It’s just past noon, but I’m certain I’ll find him there. I called his office from the road and his secretary told me he was heading home.
    Home, I know, means our third floor studio.
    “Hey, Blondie,” Blaine says as I step off the landing and into the studio.
    “I didn’t think you’d still be here.”
    “Been doing some color studies. Trying to get the damn sky right.” He shakes his head. “Getting close, but I’m not quite there yet.” Then he gets a closer look at me, and his brow furrows with concern. “Okay, what’s wrong?”
    I glance at the painting. My image is there on the canvas, more fleshed out, but still unfinished. I look raw, as if the top layer of me has been stripped away, and in that moment I think that Blaine has truly captured me. Because that is how I feel. Like Damien has ripped his way through to see what I kept hidden, and then left me exposed and vulnerable.
    Damien steps in from the kitchen. “Nikki.” I hear the pleasure in his voice, then the shift as he truly looks at me. “What’s going on?”
    “I’m going to cut out,” Blaine says.
    Damien doesn’t look at Blaine or answer. His eyes are only on me.
    I wait until I hear the door shut, and then I draw in a tight breath. My heart is pounding so hard I can barely get the words out. “Did you control her the way you do me?”
    I see confusion in his eyes, and it pisses me off. I hold on to the anger, because it gives me strength. “Sara Padgett,” I say. “Goddammit, Damien, do you think I don’t know?”
    “What is it you think you know?” His voice is as cold as ice.
    “I know you need to be in control. Your life. Your business. Your women. Your bed. I even get it,” I say. A tear has escaped and is snaking its way down the side of my nose, but I’m holdingit together. Right now, it’s me who’s the expert on control. “You were abused, weren’t you? And now you need it. You need to be in control.”
    I watch his face, looking for confirmation, but there’s nothing there. His face is blank and unreadable.
    “I do like to be in control, Nikki. I don’t think I’ve ever made a secret of that.”
    No, he hasn’t. But there have been so many other secrets. “Did it start as a game?” I ask. “Did you tie her up, too?” I move toward the bed and take one of the drapes in my hand. “Did you put this oh so gently around her arms? Then around her throat? Did you tell her about pleasure and pain?” The tears are flowing freely now, and my voice is thick with them. “Was it—was it an accident?”
    His face is no longer blank. Now it’s dark, like a violent storm, and just as dangerous. “I did not kill Sara Padgett.”
    I manage to look him straight in the eye. “I’ve got twelve-point-six million reasons to believe that you did.”
    His face goes white.
It’s true
. Oh, dear God, until that moment, I don’t think I really believed that it was true.
    “How the hell did you hear about that?”
    My skin feels clammy and my stomach is roiling. I think I’m going to be sick.
    “Certainly not from you,” I say. “I guess that’s not the kind of thing you were going to try to be more open with me about, huh? Well, I suppose I can’t blame you.”
    “How?” he repeats.
    “I overheard some of your phone conversation,” I snap. I leave out the rest.
    He shoves his fingers through his hair. “Nikki—”
    I hold up my hand. “No,” I say. I just want to get out of there. I shove my hand into the pocket of my jeans and